Road Fever (9 page)

So Garry would put it all together as he always had. There was one major problem: Ken Langley wasn’t interested. The young lawyer had had the adventure of a lifetime on the around-the-world trip. He’d had the adventure of a lifetime in Africa. It seemed to him that all he’d had was adventure, and no lifetime. It was time to settle into his law practice. “It was very emotional,” Garry said. “I knew exactly how he felt. Still, it was like we’d been married, and this was a separation. It was hard. But I understood what he wanted to do and why he wanted to do it.”

Five months after talking with Rock about the Pan-American run, I met Garry in Alaska on the ALCAN 5000, and we hit it off immediately. We both worked out of home offices, lived out of the mainstream in country-and-western sorts of towns, and traveled for a living. I spent a lot of time patching deals together, financing those travels, and I sure wasn’t rich. In fact, Garry and I both spent the same amount, about $50,000, for our respective houses, well less than half of what the average new house costs in the United States. We had both gotten good deals because, in both places, at about the same time, the local railroad had abandoned the town. Garry listened to country-and-western music and classic rock as I did. He didn’t complain about the Bach and Vivaldi tapes I popped into the cassette on waking. We were both a little over six feet tall, we both had beards, and more to the point, we both liked to tell stories. Garry’s tales of corrupt Turkish border guards gave way to my descriptions of what it’s like to be interrogated by the Peruvian Investigative Police.

Better yet, I spoke some Spanish. Garry had only a smattering. And I could write a book about our Pan-American run, sell it to a publisher, and Garry could use that contract to attract the associate sponsors he needed to realize a profit on the venture.

We shook hands on our collaboration at the end of the ALCAN 5000. That was the only contract we ever had.

B
Y
D
ECEMBER OF
1986, Garry had put together a proposal out of his basement office: a press kit that emphasized his experience, the backing of GMC, and the public-relations benefits that would accrue to potential sponsors. According to Garry’s notes, Firestone, Uniroyal, and Goodrich had declined sponsorship. He made a note to hold off sending out another fifty proposals until the first of the year. The proposals
were glossy, professional, and they cost twelve dollars apiece. Six hundred dollars.

Which meant, in essence, that Lucy would get a lump of coal in her stocking for Christmas, and Jane, pregnant with their second child, would get a tender hug. On the other hand, why send out the proposal so that it arrived three or four days before Christmas when it was likely to get buried? Why not get it to the various offices first thing into the new year, when the executives were fresh, more likely to look favorably on a new venture.

And that decision generated a trip to the bank, which was not in Moncton but two hundred miles away in Halifax, Nova Scotia. It was the bank Garry dealt with on his other projects. Garry had met Jane there in the late seventies. For Maritimers, Halifax had been something of what San Francisco was to American young people a decade earlier.

The long drive to Halifax was a good time for reflection. Garry spoke into a tape recorder he’d brought along for the purpose. “There’s Amherst, Nova Scotia, where I used to go as a kid. My dad installed windows in storefronts there and he used to take me and my twin brother, Larry, with him when we were kids. It’s the first town in Nova Scotia, Amherst, and you come over a rise, it’s just sitting out there, like a fried egg on a marsh. I saw my first blacks there. We didn’t have any in Moncton, and they seemed terribly exotic and exciting.”

Years later Garry would find himself traveling through places where everyone was black and few had ever seen a white man. Children wanted to touch him, and he let them examine him as if he were an animal on the sales block. He understood the impulse.

Garry Sowerby “grew up with this story about how one time my dad was working in Amherst and these guys came at him and he decked three of them on Main Street. I don’t know if the story got stretched or not, but the word around Amherst was, ‘Don’t screw with glaziers from Moncton.’ ” That’s what travel was about: strange exotic people to meet, new friends, and a hint of danger. “Now that I think about it,” Garry said, “those runs down the windy twisting road to Amherst in my dad’s fifty-three Mercury two-ton glass truck were my first road trips.”

Garry’s mother worked at a department store in Moncton, “which was great for Christmas because she would do all the shopping on Christmas Eve, after the store closed and the prices on everything dropped to rock bottom.” Garry and his brothers always had nice gifts.
And now Garry was driving past Amherst to Halifax, to borrow money so that he could provide proper gifts for his own family on his way to setting a world record.

An officer at Sowerby’s Halifax bank, Sue Bain, understood his operation and considered him a bona fide and secure investment. With the GMC contract in hand—the automaker owed him a $42,000 retainer—Sowerby negotiated a loan for $25,000, Canadian.

It was enough to send out his proposals, take care of Christmas, buy tickets to Peru and Bolivia, fly to London to confer with the
Guinness Book
people, and still have a bit left over to fly to New York or Chicago or Los Angeles in case someone liked his proposal. It was tight but not impossible.

Less than a month later, January 10, 1987, Sowerby needed another $20,000, and he flew to Detroit to talk with GMC. He had accounting fees of $5,000, insurance premiums to pay, legal fees, telephone bills, telex fees, and he wanted me to accompany him to South America to research the roads, the border formalities, and the security situation. Airline tickets, once again, were a major expense.

In his money-raising capacity, Garry has no illusions. He considers himself an honest “huckster.” A “dream merchant.”

January 13, in Detroit, Michigan, according to Garry’s notes, had been a good day:

“Ten-forty-two. Just left Ron Royer’s office. He works for the General Motors Overseas Development Corporation and for the International Export Division. What a great guy. Ron was involved in the last project, Africa-to-the-Arctic, and he met us in northern Finland and rode to the finish line with us. He’s about six three, Midwestern boy, talks about ‘bidness’ instead of business. Got a big flat-topped wooden desk about the size of a football field. Off in the corner there’s a big floor-standing globe of the world with a light inside it, so the thing’s glowing off in the corner. Pictures of the granddaughters, the daughter on a credenza.

“Ron can’t get involved in this because his end is marketing North American vehicles built overseas. In South America, they do a lot of the actual assembly themselves. But he said he’d hook me up with some contacts.

“So he’s going to call the people who handle Central American sales and service who can help us with contacts. Mexico is handled by Canada Chevrolet-Pontiac Division and that can be sorted out through John Rock’s group.

“We went to see Al Buchanan, who is the vice president of General
Motors Overseas, and basically what Al can do, he can provide service and contacts in Argentina, Chile, Peru, Ecuador, and Colombia. Al’s office was more in the couch-coffee table mode. Some jazz playing on the radio and a perfectly clean desktop. Al travels a lot in South America and his suggestion was to go the west coast all the way. Forget the Amazon. Too many question marks.”

Garry’s notes became a rhapsody. “I’m in a great mood about all this. I’ve got the support of John Rock, the guys that doubted me at GMC have fallen into line, and I walk into this vice president’s office on a two-minute lead time and he’s already keen on the idea. If I were trying to plug into GM on my own, well, it just wouldn’t happen.”

On the same day, Garry met with GM advertising. “I told them we weren’t looking for an end on their stuff. No money for testimonials, no payment for using my image. Oh, Tim, I told them you didn’t want to be involved in the advertising in any way. So for giving up any possible money on the back end, they approved another twenty thousand dollars for the recces. It will pay for our trips to Central and South America.”

Later the same day, Sowerby drove to the Detroit St. Regis hotel and met with Joe Boissonneault, from Stanadyne, a company that makes diesel fuel pumps and had recently introduced a new diesel fuel additive. “Joe’s a good guy and we’re friends. Stanadyne sponsored the ALCAN 5000. I asked for thirty thousand dollars up front and he gave me fifteen thousand. Said the appearances and advertising royalties after it’s over should come to maybe ten thousand. Joe said, ‘Don’t plan on retiring on this.’ I thought that too, but it’s just another building block. He wants to push the new fuel additive.”

That evening—“Oh man. Come to America. Drive around Detroit. Score thirty-five thousand dollars American, fifty thousand Canadian. Got the bank paid off. I can tell Jane, it’s okay, go ahead and have the baby anytime. Yeah.”

Garry’s made some notes on follow-up:

“Get a letter of agreement off to Stanadyne re sponsorship.

“Letter to Al Buchanan, recap our talk.

“Letter to Ron Royer, thanks.

“Letter to Alan Russell at Guinness, recap parameters.

“Talk to Art Christy tomorrow, Pontiac.”

Christy was a retired executive at Detroit Diesel, “a bit of a godfather of all these projects,” Sowerby explained. “He first introduced me to John Rock. I think he can help me figure out how to approach Detroit Diesel.” Over breakfast, Christy told Garry that $25,000 from Detroit
Diesel might be possible. Sowerby left that meeting and flew to Toronto. He made some notes on the plane:

“Letter to Detroit Diesel with a modified proposal about getting involved for twenty-five thousand dollars.

“Letter to Bruce Goodsite, retired director of public relations for Detroit Diesel, help on the above.”

In Toronto Sowerby met with GM Canada and a group called CanExpo that ships vehicle components off to different factories all over the world, including South America. Later he stopped to see his friend Finlay McDonald, who had taken some of the videotape that was shot on the Africa-Arctic run and pieced together a credible half-hour adventure film. The ambush wasn’t on film but the audiotape had been running, and you could hear Eddy Grant singing, and then there were a few isolated pops, followed by automatic-weapons fire and shouting soldiers. Garry sometimes showed the video to prospective sponsors. It caught their attention.

Finlay McDonald introduced Garry to a man who hosted a Toronto business show called
Venture
. Sure, Garry said, he would love to do an interview, talk about his sponsors.

F
EBRUARY
19: “I’m in suite 302 in the Delta Hotel in Ottawa. Jane’s with me and she’s been on the phone for the last few days, calling all the foreign embassies in Canada trying to figure out what I need to go on the recces: visas and the like. I’ve been trying to get the government in gear in terms of giving me some letters of introduction from the prime minister, secretary of state, and from the minister of sport. My meeting yesterday with Senator Finlay McDonald certainly got things rolling.”

On previous trips, Sowerby had dealt with other government officials, but Senator McDonald was the father of Garry’s friend Finlay McDonald, who made the video Garry uses to sell his proposal. It all fit together.

“Finlay’s got an office in the east block of the Parliament buildings,” Sowerby said. “It’s a couple of hundred years old and very pleasant: muted yellow walls, high ceilings. The senator himself is a bit of a character and moved very fast. I sent him a letter last week. I went to meet him and he started dictating letters to his executive assistant to get things in gear. Basically I want to be able to meet with high-level diplomats in South and Central America. I want them to be informed that I’m coming. I’d like them to get that information from the ministerial level. I want to get a letter translated into Spanish on a ministerial
letterhead. You never know when you can use a letter like that to impress some bureaucrat, especially if Canada is helping to fund a dam project or build a school down there.”

Later the same day, Sowerby met with Janet Connor, an old friend of his who is an assistant to the minister of sport, and they talked about a letter of introduction from that ministry.

Sowerby and I had agreed early on that it would be best if the expedition was perceived as a Canadian effort. The United States has an unfortunate history south of the border and Latins have long memories. There were entirely understandable antagonisms. Canadians, on the other hand, had never invaded any nation south of the United States and were, predictably, considered
simpático
.

Late on the evening of March 3, Garry sat in his office and read off the contents of his “In” basket:

“I’ve got a spare-parts list and a service plan. Instead of having a service depot of spare parts and engine assemblies and transmission assemblies, which we did in Saudi Arabia, what we do is develop a good communications system and know exactly where the parts come from. Clutch parts, water pump, fuel injector, lines, glow plug controller, about twenty-five more essentials.

“Under the service plan is a newspaper headline:
KILLINGS CONTINUE IN GUATEMALA
.

“A letter to Senator Finlay McDonald thanking him for his help.

“The addresses and numbers of two contacts at the Department of External Affairs.

“The plan for the first recce that I did in Peru, Colombia, Ecuador, and Bolivia.

“The plan for the second recce we’ve got to do in Argentina and Chile next month.

“Under that is a copy of the contact letters I sent to all the South and Central American contacts: the Canadian embassies, the auto associations, and the GM people. It’s about fifteen pages, got a couple of maps.

“Next is a list of things I have to do to get the baby’s room together. Getting some heavy pressure on that. Jane’s just about due and I recognize this phase from the last time: pregnant women seem to develop a very intense nesting instinct.